When I was young, I wanted to be an astronaut. I visited both the Johnson and Kennedy Space Centers. I watched every episode of “From The Earth To The Moon”. I had a denim jacket on which my father and grandmother stitched every patch from the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo missions. Naturally, I also was a huge fan of Ron Howard’s 1995 film “Apollo 13.” The tale of NASA’s “successful failure” captivated me. I thrilled in watching the engineers and astronauts struggle with fantastic machinery to conquer space flight. I am certain this childhood admiration for space led to my majoring in Engineering and my belief that an abundance of fun can be found in sharing those twenty amazing years in world history with my students.

Thus, I screened parts of “Apollo 13″ to my summer engineering camp. Much to my delight, I discovered the film was based on a novelization of the events written by astronaut Jim Lovell. Too my dismay, the book has been out of print for fifteen years. However, I stumbled on a copy at a used book store, and rekindled a dormant admiration inside of me that sent my mind once again wandering in the vast expanse of the universe.

“Lost Moon’ is written not as a memoir or a series of interviews. Instead, Lovell and co-author Jeffery Kluger opt to present the story as just that, a story. The book closely follows the events of those fateful days in April, 1970, paraphrasing statements made by members of the crew and ground control to create dialogue and using information gathered by the authors from interviews to provide insight into what the various folks involved were thinking and feeling. The novelization isn’t a perfect historical retelling, as several people – most notably Jack Swigert – had passed away and were not available to share their piece of the whole story.

The story is nonetheless riveting, and reads as a “love-letter” to a time when failing was not a possibility. Despite the tragedies of Apollo 1 and the John F. Kennedy assassination, and waning tax payer support, America put men on the Moon through technical know-how and shear will power (and the world’s largest flying vehicle, the monstrous Saturn V rocket). Similarly, despite dire, inexplicable damage to the Odyssey Command Module, NASA managed to save three men from certain death.

Lovell’s deep appreciation for the work conducted by the men of mission control pours through his prose, as unsung heroes Sy Liebergot and John Aaron are paid their due. How often are engineers celebrated heroes? How often are the results of massive scientific experimentation true high drama for everyone in the United States, let alone the whole world? The story of Apollo 13 is a celebration of ingenuity and creative thinking as much as it is the original space drama. The authors rightly strike a balance between these two aspects of the tale, creating a retelling which steers clear of sappy inspiration.

The space race of the 60′s and 70′s captured the imaginations of every man and woman in this country. It terrified the world when Apollo 8 read the first lines of Genesis on Christmas Day from orbit sixty miles above the Moon. It united the world in awe when Neil Armstrong descended a ladder and declared his small step a giant leap for mankind. This book captures all those emotions and makes them accessible to an entirely different generation who unfortunately did not live through those years when mankind attempted to touch the face of God. The great unknown growled back when Apollo 13 roared into the heavens, and four otherwise unremarkable days in history are captured in this book for all to experience. Perhaps it’s the times we live in, but it’s refreshing to read a tale of success despite massive odds against.

“…I don’t believe in guilty pleasures. Snobbery is just the public face of insecurity. You like what you like, and you shouldn’t feel guilty about your interests or hobbies. Unless, of course, you golf.” – Professor James Kakalios, The Physics of Superheros

I like Star Trek. There, I said it.

In all likelihood, there is a large portion of society that will immediately have the following reaction to the above statement: “NERD.” Thus, I have been labeled, and I doubt that part of society will ever allow me to escape that classification in their eyes.

As a teacher, I’ve come to the increasing realization that our “guilty pleasures” often define us in the eyes of every social group. I’ve watched from this educator’s perspective as new students incorporate themselves into various friendship circles based largely on what aspects of their interests are considered okay by the circle in question, and – perhaps just as crucial – which interests all in the circle consider “abnormal”. Though this process does not lead to the blatantly stereotyped groupings the movies would lead you to believe exist (the jocks, the goths, the skaters, the thugs, etc.), it does result in a very clear division of the student body into exclusive subsections which are often unwilling to interact with each other.

Unfortunately, this sort of division based purely on inconsequential material persists well past one’s formative years and into adulthood. Sadly, it causes even less interaction between groups the older one gets. Adults are more guilty of seclusion based on interests than their kids. We see it everywhere we go: The father who dares to wear a “nerdy” shirt needs to “grow up”; The uncle who thoroughly enjoys fishing is classified a “redneck”; The aspiring author or actor needs to “get a real job”; The political candidate talking to you is deemed “untrustworthy”: The former professional-turned-teacher is considered “a failure,” because, after all, “those who can’t do, teach.” It doesn’t matter that the father is wearing a shirt given to him by his kids with whom he shared his interests. It is immaterial that the uncle uses fishing as a means to relax and contemplate life. The author or actor? They’ve dedicated their lives to their passions, and we keep telling them that’s wrong. Perhaps the aspiring politician sincerely believes she has the means necessary to make life better for her fellow Americans…but that’s not possible, she simply wants power. Maybe that former professional honestly rather teach and make less, but he’d have to be crazy to do that.

How can we expect the next generation to better accept each other when the above paragraph describes the world they will enter, one so close minded and seclusive that many go as far as to pay to be a part of like-minded societies. The worst part is, we’re all guilty of it. Ask yourself when was the last time you steered clear of inviting a select individual to a social gathering because they might share something the rest of the group will find “weird”. For most of us, this has happened at least once in the past month. This is a pathetic behavior, and I’m as guilty as the rest of the world.

I stumbled across the quote with which I started this article while reading a book that dared to combine a professor’s two lifelong interests: Comics and Physics. It’s a priceless one-liner hurled in the first 10 pages as a warning shot to anyone who dare begin reading and think “this man is strange.” Kakalios is far from strange. He’s a person who dares to possess multiple interests and not feel guilty about a single one, a person who “walks to the beat of their own drum,” and is at once a profound and terrifying individual to interact with.

We fear that sort of person. Why? Because they are a part of both multiple groups and of no groups. They are the drifters everyone seems to like but no one dares to get close to. It’s intimidating and unwelcoming when a person can so freely share their own interests and yet seem out of place in our social networks. We try to lock them out because they don’t belong. They don’t fit the model of a citizen in your established circle. They seem too happy, too comfortable with themselves, too sure – perhaps even cocky – that they’ve got themselves figured out and like it. They are the one’s who truly “don’t care what other people think,” not out of defiance, but because they have taken the time to open their minds to both themselves and the world around them. In short, they challenge us by being willing to reveal themselves to us without fear of our reprisal…and we ostracize them for it.

It shouldn’t be wrong to like both rap and comic books, Glee and Star Trek, football and Dungeons & Dragons, anime and hunting, grunge metal and Lady GaGa. We should all embrace ALL our pleasures – throw guilty to the breeze – and welcome each other’s interests as a chance to expand our minds, bodies, and souls. It’s a beautiful thing to befriend a person with whom you share no interests safe for one: a desire to explore what is possible.

Sadly, the only time I’ve ever been able to surround myself with people who shared this belief was in my fraternity, a paid-for exclusive society. Go figure.

 

——–

MR

9/18/11

No one truly wants to “remember” September 11th, 2001. We certainly want to remember those who were lost, and contemplate the decade of history that resulted from that horrendous day, but I don’t think it’s really all that important that we remember where we were when the World Trade Center buildings were struck by hijacked planes.

A coworker of mine challenged the entirety of our work community with a similar statement yesterday. My initial reaction was shock. This was followed immediately by revulsion. After all, how dare someone speak such blasphemous words about one of the most emotional moments in world history? My mind leaped to conversations I’ve been privileged to have with those folks who recall Sunday, December 7th, 1941 as if it were yesterday. For ten years, I’d considered it my responsibility to remember 9/11 in its entirety, to remind myself that there is not only true evil and fear in this world, but also true generosity, courage, compassion, and love. I count myself among the many Americans who wretch inside every time a 9/11 joke is cracked, despite my self-spoken belief that “all is fair game” in comedy. I also consider myself a person who believes in the power of reflection, especially when faced with the unknown. It is because of this that I began to think, “Does it really matter if I remember September 11th, 2001 from start to finish?”

It was armed with this thought that I suddenly realized that I truly cannot remember most of that day. I felt even more shocked. I was embarrassed. When asked, “Where were you, Mr. Russell?” I found myself struggling to recall exact facts without having to fill in the gaps with fiction. “What kind of person are you!?” raced through my head as I spoke carefully to conceal my own mental lack of clarity concerning the details of the day. It’s never pleasant, being confronted by one’s own misgivings or unsureness. I found myself scribbling down what details I could remember on a notepad, hoping to piece together something of value to share with those who were too young to truly experience the impact of that day. The final notepad scribblings are as follows:

It was one day before my 16th birthday. I was a sophomore in high school. I was sitting in Geometry class when Mr. LaPenna told us. He was from New York City, and I could tell just how shaken he was. I can remember thinking the whole thing was…crazy? Surreal? A news hoax? I may have even thought the whole thing was kind of cool…I know one thing: I didn’t stop to think twice about my family in New York. At least not initially. Don’t remember what I did after class, but somehow found myself in the school library watching the news. I’m pretty sure CNN was the channel. They kept showing the same man leaping to his death from the upper floors of one of the towers. I remember watching this man – black suit, black hair, white shirt, maybe a blue tie – tumble head over heels at least 3 or 4 times. That’s when it hit me. That’s when reality struck. That’s when I ran to the front desk and tried desperately for what seemed like an eternity to call my mother in New York City.”

Sitting here re-reading the notes, I feel ashamed to think that it took possibly two whole hours for my teenage mind to finally grasp what the heck was happening. After several failed attempts with a land line, I was finally granted permission to use my cell phone to call my mom. She answered on the second or third try, and though I do not remember much of the conversation, I do remember her saying repeatedly, “I’m fine, sunshine, I’m fine, but the Towers are gone. They’re just gone, but I’m fine.” I went home at the regular time – several students’ parents picked them up out of fear that my area had a valuable military target – to a father who was strangely wordless, and the last thing I can remember doing was rummaging through out garage, finding our American flag, and hanging it from the flagpole mounted to the front awning. The next day, I turned 16. I never once thought to call my godmother(who lives in Manhattan), or my stepfather and godfather (both of whom were New York State Troopers called in to Ground Zero to assist).

One crucial day in our history, and all I can remember are four solid facts: My lack of immediate understanding of the atrocity, a man leaping to his death, hanging a flag, and my mom’s words. What good is that?

Perhaps, just perhaps, those moments are remembered not because it is my duty to remember them. Instead, they are what I can recall because they have informed who I am as a person over the last decade. Perhaps, I can vividly relive each of these snippets because as I’ve grown, I’ve looked back and realized how utterly not tuned-in I was to the world, to other people’s emotions, or to tragedy. Like many teens, I was a self-centered child unconcerned with only me, myself, and I…In fact, I am fairly certainly that I at one point actually stopped and thought for a minute “could this have happened AFTER my birthday?”

September 11th made me realize just how broken an existence a self-centered life can be. I’m very blessed that all my loved ones survived that day. Others are not. That man falling to his death was someone’s father, son, uncle, brother, husband, and cousin. I watched as he died, and not once did I worry that my own loved ones were meeting a similar fate.

Perhaps we do not need to remember where we were that day ‘physically’ after all. Perhaps it is more important that we reflect on who we were that day – spiritually, emotionally, mentally – to discover who we’ve become.

—–

MR

9/13/11

I haven’t actively ridden a bicycle in nearly a decade. Once I passed my driver’s test, biking took a backseat to doing my best impression of the Dukes of Hazzard down the streets of Tampa in my Nissan Pathfinder. My awesome Mongoose Menace proceeded to rust in Florida’s humidor environment and currently is decorated with the finest weeds grown in moist, shady backyards.

As a kid, I remember doing everything in my power to wreck that thing. Sweet ramp jumps that would make Napoleon Dynamite jealous were just the tip of the iceberg. Spinning out on dusty parts of pavement was par for the course, a warm up to later lunacy. By far the most fun I and my cousins had with our bikes involved their grandmother’s property and a climbing rope dangling from a tree. We’d each take turns peddling as fast as possible towards this rope, reaching up to grab a hold of it, and sending ourselves swinging through the air while our bikes went ghost-riding down the sidewalk. At least in theory. Several times the bikes went swinging with us. More frequently, we’d wipe out from a failed grip or – even more frequently – miss the rope entirely and wreck into the nearest tree. Those were the days.

Needless to say, a bicycle was not a means of transportation for my preteen self. It was more a means of discovering how many ways I could cheat death.

Ten years later I have a new found interest in two-wheeled, man-powered contraptions. Call it a desire to do cardio exercises outside without having to run in brutal summer heat. Call it a desire to spare my car of unnecessary short distance mileage. Call it boredom. For whatever reason, I’ve suddenly found myself riding a bike whenever the situation permits.

I’ve also realized I hadn’t discovered all the methods of cheating death on a bike. My very first day on a recently rebuilt ancient mountain bike found in my garage resulted in a hilarious crash which sent me soaring over the front handlebars and splatting onto my back. Apparently, I had forgotten how to properly land after a simple curb jump. Thankfully, a backpack full of water bottles, books, and tools broke my fall. And my back.

That harrowing encounter with asphalt aside, riding a bicycle is simply refreshing. For local errands – say less than 10 miles away from home – a bike isn’t that much slower than a car. In fact, the slower pace, I’ve found, makes you notice your immediate neighborhood more and can lead to fun little discoveries. Local shops, restaurants, parks, trails, architecture…all are immediately more apparent and appreciable. A bike encourages exploration in ways no car can manage in suburbia. And there’s also the obvious health benefit. Aside from minor back pain and the occasional sore rear end, biking is an incredibly comfortable way to work out. Sure, you’ll get a little sweaty and have limited storage space onboard your vehicular conveyance, but if you errands amount to “Bank, Library, Gym, Coffee Shop, then Home” there’s very little reason to hop behind the wheel of your car.

Your car will love you for the break. So will your wallet. Every Average Joe knows what local driving does to your miles-per-gallon. As gas prices soar, why not take the extra fifteen minutes necessary to get your butt in shape and save a few nickels?

There is one major drawback I’ve discovered during my biking adventures. Neither pedestrians nor drivers know how to handle a bike in their vicinity. Pedestrians will freeze like a deer in the headlights and adamantly refuse to move out of the way. Drivers are even more fickle. Some will swerve into oncoming traffic to avoid slowing down for a biker on the street. Others will get right up on the bike’s tail and give them the business with high beams and a horn. Still others have selective blindness, impairing their vision of any two wheeled vehicles nearby. This all leads to “Danger, Will Robinson!” moments for the biker and cannot be entirely eliminated no matter how selective he or she is on chosen routes.

Still, I find the benefits of bicycling to far outweigh the dangers. People who scoff at biking are, well, lazy. I know. I am one of those people. Despite my love of being on the bike, I wage mental warfare with my laziness every time I gear up for a ride. We are so accustomed to fast-paced, simplicity-first lifestyles that reverting to transportation not used since the Stone Age seems archaic to many. However, for those few crazy enough to mount that two-wheeled deathtrap, bicycling can lead to gratifying suburban exploration, hundreds of dollars in saved gas mileage, and better health. Besides, there are far worse ways to wipe out.

- MR, 7/26/2010

I don’t often make it a habit of reading autobiographies. I’m not one prone to taking solace or refuge in the exploits of others. I’d much rather be committing my own exploits worthy of the written word and eventual best seller status according to the New York Times.

However, once in a blue moon a truly transcendental person comes along to shock and awe those around them. This Renaissance individual has lived a life so glorious, so meaningful, so emotionally resonant that I can’t help but wonder what that person’s own reflective retrospective is of their numerous adventures on this planet.

Thus, it was with reckless abandon that I purchased the William Shatner audiobook of his autobiography ‘Up Till Now,’ published in 2008.

Now I know what some of you are thinking. Why the heck would you break from your hatred of autobiographies for Captain James Tiberius Kirk of all people? For one, I didn’t have to read it. It’s an audiobook. Someone else reads it to me. Who? Why, Sargent T.J. Hooker himself, Mr. Bill Shatner. That, my friends, sealed the deal. Here was an opportunity to have the author read his autobiography to me, conveying the very emotions he felt at the moments described in ways no interpretive reading could. I was getting the story of William Shatner written by William Shatner and read to me by William Shatner.

Little over six hours later, I can honestly say there is nothing more tragic than listening to a man describe discovering his dead wife’s body at the bottom of his pool. There’s nothing more entertaining than listening to Shatner try to clarify why the staples of his pop culture image – his bizarre speech patterns, his overly enthusiastic stunts, and who can forget his singing – are either pure flukes and side effects of his acting bravado or started out as artistic endeavors that were horribly misinterpreted. And there’s definitely nothing more whimsical than Shatner’s musings on the great unknowns of our world: Is there a God? What truly defines Love? “Do I wear a toupee?”

Laced throughout his nearly eighty year tale are moments that only Shatner can cook up. At several points he interrupts his narrative to make a sales pitch for Priceline.com, Captain Kirk action figures, fan developed blooper reels from ‘Star Trek’, and his Ben Folds produced musical album ‘Has Been’. He perpetually mocks the idea that he will do anything for a paycheck by repeatedly stating that “actors must act, it’s their job” and “I do like money.” His vocal delivery manages to convey pride in his work, the insanity of his belief in his own indestructibility (“I knew the rules. I’m the Star. Stars never get hurt.”), and the general shock he routinely experiences whenever he considers the multiple reasons why he’s become a cultural phenomenon.

If there’s one thing I can take away from this book, it’s that Bill Shatner is a shining example of life not wasted. He’s nearly 80 years old and well aware that he may soon be riding his own wagon train to the stars, but this has not stopped the Shat-Man from continuing to live life according to his rules, his passions, all while embracing his unique place in history.

Afterall, some of life’s best moments still haven’t happened yet.

- MR, 7/22/2010

I reached an astonishingly simple realization recently: I own too much crap. Perhaps this is a reflection upon me as a good ol’ consumer in these United States. Unlikely. I’m notoriously well known for being miserly in my spending habits, only willing to break open the proverbial piggy-bank when family or traveling is involved. The problem is not a burning hole in my wallet where presidents Lincoln, Jackson, and Washington used to reside. The real culprit is my unwillingness to part with certain things. Toys, books, and video games primarily.

Unable to set aside these possessions from the past, I have instead done the next logical thing and traveled with them packed as precious cargo in my journeys across the country. In a manner that can only be called obsessive-compulsive, any packing prior to a move starts with my electronic mecca. Video game platforms are carefully draped in bubble-wrap and old t-shirts, games are stacked alphabetically in meticulously chosen boxes for transport, and controllers are layered within a plastic container atop each other according to size.

My books and toy collection receive similar treatment. Kitchenware? Furniture? Picture frames? All of those could be haphazardly packed the day of the move as far as I was concerned. As long as my precious relics from the past managed to make the trip in comfort, I was satisfied.

Of course, this mentality is mild-grade insane and indicative of a characteristic I long denied possessing. I am attached to my material goods for no obvious reason other than “I like owning them.” I take comfort in owning a copy of “Wrestlemania: The Arcade Game” for the Sega Genesis because, as a child, that game entertained me. The fact that I have not touched that game in over five years, nor felt any compelling reason to plug my Genesis into a television since graduating college, doesn’t matter. What does matter is if I wanted to play it again I can.

Reading what I’ve just typed, I am inclined to believe I am severely off my rocker. However, I realized this is an attitude that a large majority of people have towards any number of “things”. Baseball cards, porcelain dolls, comic books, Transformers, hats, plates, spoons, thimbles, pillows, cars, beer bottle caps, DVDs, clothing, shoes, coins, gadgets, sunglasses, art…this list goes on and on and on. Perhaps, somewhere in our minds there is a desire to represent something in the physical realm, exhibiting total ownership over an abstract memory or emotion. For myself, this has manifested itself in a material representation of my artistic experiences through games and stories. For others, it may be displaying their travels through novelty plates or spoons.

As the Pixar movies ‘Up’ and ‘Toy Story 3′ made clear to audiences worldwide, it’s often terribly difficult to relinquish our property if it is attached to cherished memories. The memory feels more real – more important, even – if their exists a conduit for it to take physical form. The desire to ‘keep’ the memory alive is so powerful that it overpowers conventional reasoning regarding “nesting” and “hoarding”. In short, the warm fuzzies I get from simply holding my battleworn copy of ‘The Brothers Karamazov’ has overridden my desire to own move lightly across our planet. Instead, it joins other volumes of epic length in a ridiculous heavy box whose contents exist solely to be unpacked onto a bookshelf then repacked into another moving box.

Thus, armed with this ground breaking epiphany, I’ve decided that today is Purging Day. I intend to set no real goals other than to reduce the amount of unnecessary crap currently under my despotic rule down to two easily maneuvered boxes. One will be a “memory box” containing those items I simply cannot bring myself to part with, and the other will house items I’ve deemed of immediate use and therefore retainable.

This is gonna be hard…

- MR, 7/21/2010

Welcome to my personal asylum for poorly written observations and occasional humor. In my paltry time spent walking round this great big blue and green (and occasionally smoggy) planet of ours, I’ve come to gain what some might call a “unique” prospective of the various happenings and shenanigans we as a race engage in. Others would claim I’m simply arrogant, insane, or even downright foolish.

Call my views what you will. I don’t claim to align myself to any established form of thinking. I’m a little bit country, a little bit rock and roll, a little bit gangsta rap. I’m a democrat, a republican, a communist, and a tea bagger. I practice catholicism, buddhism, daoism, judaism, and Heinlein-ism. I’m an oilfield engineer, a teacher, a hippie, a globetrotter, a salesman, a consumer, and a friend. Simply put, I am me. This is not a unique message. Everyone from God to Eminem has said as much with similar statements. Nevertheless it still stands as a both a profound statement of individuality and purpose.

‘The Flex World Tour’ is quite a silly name, one I am very proud of. It represents my “little spark of madness” inherent in everything I do, born from a high school student’s bored stupidity and grown into the worst – and by that I mean best! – running joke in my life.This site is me sharing the silliness of my life with everyone else as we all embark on the world tour called Life.

I hope you enjoy.

- MR 7/21/2010